A Special Sense of Humor by Heidi Schultz

Flipping through the pages of my journal recently, I read random entries made during months of multiple misdiagnoses, eventual diagnosis, chemotherapy, radiation and follow-up treatment for Ewing's sarcoma: a tumor in my left ankle. There were laments: "Some days I just want to stay in bed and cry." And there was wary hope: "The first treatment was easier than I expected. At least I don't always have my head hanging off the bed over a garbage can."

But as I read, a very specific and unexpected attitude emerged from between the lines of entry after entry. I had instinctively summoned my sense of humor to rally strength in the face of a trauma far beyond anything I had ever experienced.

I spent the first week of December 1993 in the hospital for my inaugural round of chemotherapy. In between Ativan-induced naps I folded and addressed Xeroxed Christmas letters to every friend I had made in 25 years. I gave details of my situation and reached out in a way I never had before: "Drop me a line if you have the chance-send me a joke or a funny story, or a drawing of what you think I'll look like bald!" I explained, "Our house has become the center of what Dad has christened 'tumor humor,' meaning REALLY BAD cancer jokes."

The response exceeded my most outrageous expectations. Stacks of letters came pouring in, hats monogrammed "Bad Hair Day" and "No Hair Day," cartoons, jokes, stories, drawings, funny glasses, fake hair, books . . . and on and on.

Now, in my biased opinion, my friends are amazing, but in reality they're no different from anyone else. Their reactions were examples of a private theory I proved over and over during 14 months of treatment: people were better able to relate to me and therefore support me when I eased their awkwardness and discomfort toward cancer by cracking a joke or making a wry comment about baldness or nausea or "doing drugs." Once I had irreverently blown through that invisible line of propriety, people became much less worried about saying the wrong thing (I had already said it), and were incredibly hungry for detailed knowledge of my illness.

Humor wasn't just something I used to make things easier on other people, though. By laughing in the face of cancer, I demystified it for myself. If I could laugh at cancer, it had no power-I had the power.

During that first week of chemo in the hospital, I woke up at 4 a.m., achy, with a slight chill. Not surprising, considering that I'd just had a central line surgically implanted in my chest, and had been ingesting massive doses of toxic chemicals. With dire warnings about infection echoing in my head, I buzzed the nurse in a panic to tell her, "I think I may have the flu." She asked, "Have you been around any sick people lately?" I started to answer when all of a sudden the absurdity of it hit me. I burst into huge, hiccuping laughter. Gasping for breath, I answered, "Considering that I'm on a cancer ward, yes, I've been around lots of sick people lately!" and then we were both howling with laughter. Afterwards, tired but somehow relieved, I fell back into a deep natural sleep.

Humor also allowed complete strangers into my life, some just for a short, memorable moment. On the way from Texas for a Florida vacation after six weeks of twice-daily radiation, my mother and I pulled into a truck stop in Louisiana. I was sporting my usual wild print bandanna and sunglasses and was waiting in line to buy a drink when a young guy behind me cracked an unexpected joke: "So, are you making a fashion statement or are you going through chemo?" When I answered, "Chemo-how do you know about it?" he told me that his dad was in treatment for lymphoma, but was hanging in there okay. As we drew near the counter, the motherly black woman at the register chimed in: "Well, I had my treatments six years ago and I'm doing fine!" I asked her, "Will my hair grow back curly like yours?" She answered with a grin, "Yep, and it'll prob'ly be blue like mine, too," and we all laughed together. In one brief instant, we had connected on an unspoken level of hope, fear and encouragement.

Near the end of my treatment protocol, I compiled a list in my journal of lessons learned during the preceding months. I closed the entry with the words: "Now I just need to remember everything I've learned-and remember it with a laugh and a smile. Humor can get you through most anything." Two years later, I am cancer-free and still laughing.